


Fast Ball

by ussgallifrey221b



Series: To Build a Home [15]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Parenthood, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-11-01 23:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20547896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: In retrospect, he probably could have handled the situation better. But Bucky never really planned on being one ofthoseparents.





	Fast Ball

He was used to that look. The judgemental one that so many people gave his way, no one bothering to hide the disdain and disgust. It was one Bucky was well acquainted with. Starting with the other guys he would wipe the floor with at the YMCA in Brooklyn. The shell-shocked faces of half-starved women and children when they advanced through bombed-out German towns. The evil Americans walking through with little aid to give them, thinking that the sullen sniper could probably kill you if he wanted. And wasn’t being an international criminal enough to warrant some heated looks?

But here? Oh, it’s far worse. He’s been pushed to the sidelines by them. He’s nothing more than a heartless being intent on performing the worst possible sin.  


“If you’re not careful, that glare of yours will burn right through your very inconspicuous sunglasses,” you nudge his shoulder playfully.

Bucky smirks, despite himself, hands balled up as he paces in front of the chairs. He can see you shake your head as you bounce the energetic three-year-old on your hip, pointing at different things around the field with keen interest. As you sway back and forth, you catch the pained look on his face and slow yourself down to meet his stride.

“Keep it to yourself and they’ll let you back in by the end of season.”

He snorts, glancing over at the other parents who are doing a spectacular job of giving a cold front your way. Backs turned with an air of superiority.

“Assholes,” Bucky mutters through clenched teeth. He’s quickly pushed off balance as you bump your hip into his with a pointed stare.

Smirking down at Timothy, who remained completely oblivious to the conversation, before looking back up, “My apologies. I meant  _ buttholes _ .”

Letting the hyper boy slide down to the grass, seemingly interested with the dandelions around the spread blanket, you loop a hand around his waist and pull him close. Bucky smiles as he drapes his arm around your shoulders, shoving his left down into his pants pocket.

Out of habit, he sweeps the field. Martin, the owner of the local grocery store, is conceal carrying, but he’s only a low-level threat in Bucky's mind. With his size, casual pace, and complete lack of proper stance or firing ability, he wouldn't be able to draw the Ruger before he would be overpowered. Looks like Denise has already knocked back a few drinks - way to go on the mothering spectrum. Completely out of it, a nuisance or distraction maybe, but harmless in the scheme of things. Bucky can’t help but squeeze your shoulder, feeling grateful for you and the way you mother the kiddos.

And it looks like one of the fathers has one tucked away, only peeping the holster when the guy pushes his jacket off. He looks more trained than Martin, certainly. His stance says he’s the type to head to a range once a month. Maybe clean his firearms down with a highly-rated gun oil he saw on a YouTube video. But he isn't flaunting it - he’s quickly marked down to a low-level threat as well.

He can’t remember if it was Agent Wecht or Agent Durman who was doing rounds as groundskeeper this time, but he would be more than prepared. You didn’t carry anymore - too many grabby hands from curious children deemed it unsafe. Though he’s very much aware of the knife you keep sheathed in your right boot. Two in his boots and one in his pocket, and, of course, the Glock resting safely on his left hip.

You used to tease him about it, the over-prepared tendencies, but after Rebecca was born it wasn’t even a question. No one ever said being with a superhero was glamorous and especially an ex-HYDRA agent at that. But speaking of the precious cargo -

“Where’s Gabe?” He flusters, tracking the field and bleachers, not spotting the usual mop of brown hair in the crowd.

With a gentle squeeze on his hip and a kiss to his neck, he breathes a sigh of relief. “He’s with Sophie.”

Bucky pulls back, letting his sunglasses drop down the bridge of his nose to really look at you, “Thomas?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, swaying against him.

The little blonde-haired girl with perfect pigtails and rainbow ribbons and glitter skirts? Who had the giant 96 crayon pack with a built-in sharpener that Gabe had complained about her having on the third day of first grade? Whose mom owned the local garage and seemed to know more about catalytic converters than he ever felt was necessary to retain? Who lived on at the end of the rich cul-de-sac at the far end of town in the cookie-cutter beige house with a built-in swimming pool?  _ That _ Sophie Thomas?  


Bucky looks around frantically, before you nudge him again. “Ease up, Sarge. They’re holding hands under the playground. At your four.”

Rocking back on his feet, he casually glances over your shoulder. You snicker to yourself and he thinks he hears you say  _ some classic Super Soldier spy techniques right there _ , but he tries to not bite back a snitty reply. Eyes falling on the small plastic play equipment where, in the sand under the slide, sits two six-year-olds holding hands and tucked into a pretty serious-looking conversation.  


“Why her?” He finds himself asking softly.

You startle slightly, but mask it with a glance their way and then back to the field, “He told me she has a slip n’ slide at her house.”

He finds himself humming in understanding, “Huh. When’s the wedding?”

Your laugh is warm and beautiful as you lean into his side, “They're torn between the ice cream parlor and the taco cart at the school carnival next week.”

With a grin, Bucky nods, “Reasonable choices.”

As you move to fuss with the blue plaid blanket that Tim is currently throwing bits of torn-up grass onto, Bucky tries to calm his mind as the players make their way out on the field. Hands fisted deep in his jean pockets, he kicks at the ground as he surveys the two teams. And after a minute, Bucky feels a deep agitation clawing at his skin.

"Babe," he grits over his shoulder, "Why is she benched?"

You stare up at him with doe eyes and a calm tone, casually brushing the hair from your son's forehead with your hand, "I doubt it's from you threatening to bash the coach from last week's game in the head with a bat, if that's what you're wondering." You stand, steadying yourself - or maybe him - with a gentle hand. " _ Or _ , it could be a random selection. Like they do every game."

He doesn't look at you, eyes burning the dugout in front of him instead. "Uh-huh."

You nuzzle at his neck with a cold nose and rosy lips. "Easy, baby. She's not even into the qualifiers for the tournament yet.  _ And _ if you go off on them again, I doubt they'll let her through anyway," you warn with a ghost-like kiss to the shell of his ear.

He shudders, hating that you like to blatantly attack his weak points like that in public, with the kids around - at your daughter's game - and he can't even do anything about it by dragging you off somewhere. Grunting, his hand smacks your ass when you turn to go back down on the blanket.

* * *

The thing is, as the game ticks by with polite claps and overzealous cheering when certain kids manage to make it all the way around the bases, he just feels the frustration dripping from every pore on his fucking body.  


They had thrown her out in left field.  _ Left fucking field _ ! Three innings in, and she had the chance to catch one fucking ball! Shortstop, yes. First base? Fuck yes. God damn Third even! And then, the genius coach had pushed through the worst players for batting. And sure, maybe it was just randomized like you kept trying to convince him. But if Megan Westegard needed the coach to physically position her again and again at home plate, like this wasn't her second year playing softball, he was going to bend the fucking bat in half and chuck it at the pitching machine.  


"Honey," your voice is gentle, like when you would calm Gabe down during his tantrums. Walking on egg-shells, but also assertive. He honestly hates that you're using it on him.

"You're becoming a soccer mom. Chill the  _ fuck _ out," you bite with a smile, your voice low enough for only him to hear. "They're third graders having fun with their friends. You're the only one freaking out."

His fingers flex into fists as the tension shakes from his shoulders. He looks at you, at the dugout, at you again, and then relaxes. You take it as a good sign, giving him a nice pat on his back like he's done something praiseworthy. Bucky's eyes go cold as he shoves the sunglasses off, folding and hanging them from his shirt collar.

"I'm gonna talk to him."

Your face drops as he begins stalking towards the field, "Wha - Buc -  _ James _ , no!"

He can actually feel every single parent's gaze following him. The world goes quiet, the clapping stalls, the munching of food stops, fucking Denise even pauses her slurred ramblings. He doesn't need to look back to know what expression you're giving him - your eyes are boring holes into the back of his jacket just well enough.

Bucky peers around the side of the wooden structure. Sees Rebecca kicking her legs back and forth at the other end of the dugout with two other players. Chin resting in her hands, elbows on her knees, looking bored as hell. Coach Wright is sitting a foot away from Bucky, working something over on his clipboard.

He knocks a rough fist against the wood. Wright startles and his face drains of its natural color. Rebecca turns and waves at him.

"Hi, Dad!"

He smiles at her, but his eyes are still icy, "Hey, sweetheart." Bucky points a gloved finger at Wright, " _ You _ . We need to talk."

The man stands slowly, depositing his little clipboard on the bench. "Mr. Smith," he greets with a downturned expression.

Right. Fake names and all that. Given aliases that he still occasionally forgets they have to live with. James Smith, office worker. Very boring, very normal, definitely not a well-known public figure.  


Bucky waits till he's almost at the end of the dugout before he grabs him by the collar with a fist, dragging him around the corner and out of sight from his daughter.

Wright frantically pushes his hands against Bucky's chest, but he's an immovable boulder, firmly planted in his decision. He thinks he hears you sigh with a bored acceptance. It probably wasn't at the top of the list for worst things he's ever done and at this point in the marriage, how much could you really care about another altercation at the softball field?

"Hey," he says with a dangerous smile, all teeth, and no warmth. "The fuck are you doing?"

"I - I don't," the coach splutters, anxiously looking around for a sign of help and finding none. Bucky had made sure they would be obscured from view.

"I think you're gonna get my kid back out on the field."

He nods furiously, "That was - that's exactly what I'm going to - yes, I'll get her - "

Releasing the shirt from his grasp, Wright stumbles slightly, readjusting his wrinkled collar with a grimace. "Pitcher?"

Bucky nods again, "Sounds great."

Cheers for the stands alert them to the end of another inning as the teams run off to their respective dugouts. A swarm of seven and eight-year-olds fills the small bench.

"Shouldn't, ah, shouldn't be a problem, Mr. Smith."

He turns, thumbs poking out from his jean pockets, "What I like to hear."

Bucky strides back over to you, feeling all the more smug. Your face is neutral as you sit cross-legged on the blanket. Timothy's on your lap, tablet in hand as he focuses on some kid's show that Bucky never remembered the name of. Oh, but your eyes give you away. But that's probably what you intended.

"And how long are we gonna be banned for now?"

He laughs as he plops down next to you, slides his sunglasses from his collar and puts them back on. His grin can't be contained. "Don't know what you're talking about, sugar."

You lean into his shoulder, " _ Sugar _ , huh? Keep it up and I might forgive you sooner."

Bucky chuckles, feels the sun warming his face as he looks out at the field, "Should be thanking me."

There's an audible scoff next to him that only makes him grin more. " _ Thanking you _ ? Now you're just pushing your luck."

"Mmm. And I'll keep pushing and pushing," Bucky wraps his right arm around your waist, nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. Seeking your sweet neck past wind-swept hair.

Your left-hand drops heavy on his thigh, fingertips daringly reaching out towards the fly of his jeans. You turn your head to meet his lips, which you whisper against, "Watch yourself, Sarge."

He surges forward to kiss you, nearly knocking you over in the process.

"Momma!" Timothy fusses, leaning sideways across your lap. " 'm tryna watch my show."

Bucky smirks, ruffles the three-year-old's hair, "Sorry, buddy. Mom was being clumsy."

You stare at him indignantly, "Oh,  _ mom _ was at fault here?"

He hums in reply with a quick nod, chasing after your lips once more before the game starts up again.

As the two coaches remove the pitching machine, Becca bounces on her toes on the raised mound. Excitement rippling off her as she anxiously seeks them out in the crowd.

With a nudge to his shoulder, you ask, "Pitcher, huh?" Bucky just gives a nonchalant shrug. You nod, survey the team for a moment. "Come on Chargers!" You shout with your hands cupped around your mouth.

Wright stands next to Rebecca, clearly reiterating the underhand throw she needed to do. Letting her walk it through a few times before handing her over the softball as the first member of the Washtenaw Wasps stepped up to the plate.

She tossed the ball into her glove once, twice, before pulling it into her right hand. Eyeing the player, the catcher, the dad subbing in as a referee. Right foot back, shoe digging into the dirt. Left foot forward, light on her toes. Winding it back with a strangely hardened stare. And then, after a tense moment, the ball flies through the air.

The batter jumps back and out of the way. The catcher ducks to the side with a shriek. The ref barely sidesteps it as the softball careens past and  _ slams _ into the chainlink fence.

Bucky jumps to his feet, pulling his sunglasses off as he stares in concern. You're right behind him, mouth agape.

As the ref retrieves the ball, it's visibly split in half - the covering is limply hanging from the green stitching.

You look at each other, so many questions brewing between you. Was it the serum? Was it mutated powers? Or god, was it just natural ability?  


And then Bucky  _ whoops _ and starts clapping, "Fuck yeah, baby!"

Of course, you're right there with him, clapping and hollering like two maniacs as Rebecca beams proudly from the pitcher's mound. You don't even correct him for the swear. Too stunned, too proud to do anything but celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).


End file.
